


A Hobbit and a Frog

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Series: Prompts and AUs [6]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Comedy, Fluff, M/M, fairy tale AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 02:13:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2331449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt response for cassiopeiae13 on tumblr: Bilbo/Bofur Fairy Tale AU</p><p>Bilbo was raised on fairy tales. As a child, he dreamed of magic and curses and impractical romance.  But then he grew up, and became a respectable, boring bachelor, and all those fancies gave way to dinners and rents and more sensible books.</p><p>But then-</p><p>-a wizard showed up.  A wizard who wanted a favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fairy Tales

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CassieCreates](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassieCreates/gifts).



> [Blanket Permission Statement](http://dragonsquill.tumblr.com/permission)

Bilbo was raised on fairy tales.

Folklore was his father’s great love. Bungo adored stories of romance and adventure almost as much as Belladonna loved having them, and he was a master storyteller. Bilbo’s favorites were always the ones with adventure and magic and a splash of romance – he loved tales of cursed princes and vengeful spells, of foolish Men who toyed with dragons and wise Elves who healed with herbs and magic. He even loved the handful of fanciful Hobbit tales that contained magic: whispers of garden fairies who spread dew and seeds, and laughing references to house gnomes who stole cookies in the night before disappearing with the morning light (since clearly no family member would do such a thing).

Their house gnome’s name was “Gnomie,” a name Belladonna would not let Bilbo live down, even though he was a fauntling of five when he dreamed it up, and his favorite food was thick apple crumble – which also happened to be Bungo’s dessert of choice.

Bungo was also an excellent writer of letters, and had become pen pals with a number of his wife’s old friends, exchanging folk tales and fairy tales, fables and parables, which he would then tell his son. By the time Bilbo was in his tweens, he and his father were writing and illustrating books of stories from around Arda. They had Hobbit stories, of course, and Elvish, and even some stories of Men, since quiet Bungo would sit and listen as outgoing Belladonna drew stories out of Men at the inn in Bree (that his mother wriggled fairy tales out of Men for Bungo was one of the sweetest signs of his parents’ love for each other that Bilbo could imagine). Bungo even exchanged letters with Gandalf the Gray, an ancient and powerful wizard who knew stories that Men had long forgotten. The only culture they didn’t have a fair number of stories from was the Dwarves, who tended to be extremely secretive about anything to do with their history.

“I’ll find a Dwarf to write to soon enough,” Bungo would say with a smile, laying a hand on a special book he’d set aside for recording dwarven tales. “Your mother can’t be stopped when she has a mission in mind.”

Bungo was wrong. He never did find a Dwarf to exchange tales and good will with. He and Belladonna died a few short months later, during the horror of the Fell Winter. Bilbo was left alone, surrounded by the books he had written with his father and left with the task of writing letters to the Elves, Men, and Hobbits who had contributed so much to his childhood, letting them know that the quiet, clever Bungo and adventurous Belladonna were gone.

Many of his father’s friends continued to write, and Bilbo sent polite replies. But it hurt too much to think of continuing his work without his father by his side, so he never developed the deep rapport and friendship with them Bungo had. 

Over these same months and then years, the books of folk tales in his careful hand, delicately illustrated by his father, grew dusty on the study shelves.

Over the years he went from a wealthy bachelor of excellent family background to something of a hermit, a bit of a curiosity, lonely Baggins in his great smial who never took a wife. “What a waste,” his neighbors would tut, though they liked him well enough. “All that room and money and no one to spend it on.” (Though in truth, Bilbo did spend it, on his tenants who never went without in difficult times.)

He was a fine, upstanding, and rather boring Hobbit, until the day of his 42nd birthday, when all those fairy tales of his childhood caught up with him in the most unexpected shape of an amphibian.

\----

Bilbo sometimes went on rambling walks near his home, especially along the stream that ran south of Hobbiton. It gave him some time alone, away from friendly (and nosy) neighbors, elderly matrons with available daughters, and children clambering for “one more story, Mr. Bilbo, please!” He would take along a bag full of food, plenty of handkerchiefs, and a stout walking stick, then head off down the lane until it was time to cross into the small, safe woods. 

Sometimes, after enough years had passed, he would bring along one of the books he and his father had written, and perhaps a couple of Gandalf’s old letters, find a comfortable spot, and do a little reading (and revision, though he never fully admitted to that part to himself).

It was not at all an adventure, like his mother would have had, just a nice walk. Adventures, he felt, were well-suited to books in comfortable armchairs rather than to hard days on the road. His life wasn’t exciting, but it was safe and calm, which was much more important in the eyes of a Hobbit. 

“Good afternoon, Bilbo,” came a low voice from very high up indeed. 

Bilbo jumped, nearly dropping his pipe in his lap, and tilted his head back. Then back a little more, until . . . “Gandalf?!”

The wizard smiled at him, warm and friendly in his wizened old face. “Indeed,” he said, “I _am_ Gandalf.” He spread his arms, as if to present himself, “and Gandalf is me!”

Bilbo’s brows drew together and his nose scrunched up at this odd introduction. “It took me a moment,” he said apologetically. “It has been some time since I last saw you.”

Gandalf tsked sharply. “I would not have thought myself so easy to forget,” he muttered under his breath before raising his voice to say, “And I have been looking for you, Bilbo Baggins. You are not an easy Hobbit to find.”

“I do apologize,” Bilbo said, although he had no reason to be; he knew himself to be, in general, an exceptionally easy Hobbit to find, “I didn’t intend to be.”

Gandalf harrumphed. “I’ll let it go this time, though you might consider leaving a note.”

Bilbo bristled a bit at this. “I can leave my home without-” he began, because a well-established bachelor feels no need to go flinging notes everywhere, but Gandalf spoke breezily over him.

“I am in need, my dear boy, of a favor,” he announced, and his voice seemed to echo in the little glade. The effect was quite mysterious and somewhat discomfiting. Bilbo shifted nervously on his little spot of leaves.

Then Gandalf reached into one voluminous pocket and pulled out-

-a frog.

“It’s a frog,” Bilbo said, because what else was there to say?

“Actually,” the frog corrected, “I’m a dwarf.”

And Bilbo passed out.

But only briefly.

\----

“Really,” Gandalf was saying as Bilbo’s eyes fluttered open, “I told you to let me handle this.”

“I didn’t think he’d just go _down_ like that,” a voice argued, “though it was an impressive dive.” This new voice was pleasant, with an unfamiliar burr of an accent that Bilbo didn’t recognize. “How is he supposed to kiss me if he can’t even look at me?”

“I don’t believe it was the looking, young Bofur, so much as the speaking.”

Bilbo, meanwhile, had dedicated what felt like several minutes, but was probably only a few seconds, to sitting up. “I don’t,” he said, trying to sound very firm indeed but coming out more wobbly, “kiss frogs.”

He did not feel any need to point out that he did not, since he’d grown out of his teens, kiss Hobbits either.

Gandalf looked over at him with a fatherly smile. He had settled down in the grass while Bilbo regained his senses, his long legs folded and knees akimbo. On one of those knees was a fat green frog of rather impressive size. It had odd, darker green markings above its mouth which gave it a very distinctive and somehow _unnatural_ look. “Ah, Bilbo, so nice to have you back again.”

The frog tilted its head to the side and opened its mouth. For a moment, Bilbo believed that sanity had returned to his life and only a croak would come out. But it was not to be. 

“Well,” the frog said, “if you don’t kiss frogs, we may have a bit of a problem.”

Bilbo felt a touch light-headed.

Gandalf sighed, “Bofur!”

The frog lifted one foot (flipper?), sighed, and said in a monotone, “Yes, yes. _Ribbit._ ”

\-----

“He’s cursed?”

Gandalf grumbled to himself. “Of course he is! It is not _natural_ for dwarves to become frogs, my dear Bilbo. Though,” and here he shot the frog – ah, dwarf – dwog? a look, “if there are such misconceptions it is due to their own stubborn refusal to be good neighbors.”

The frog managed to look offended at that.

“Then is he-” Bilbo stopped, visions of childhood etiquette lessons dancing through his head. The fact that his new acquaintance was a frog didn’t excuse bad manners. Bilbo straightened his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ah. Dwarf. My name is Bilbo Baggins.” He started to hold out a hand, then flushed and pulled it back.

The frog shifted onto his back legs, lifted a fore-flipper to his heart, and said, in a voice much too deep for such a small creature, “Bofur, son of Kifur, at your service.” Then he sort of lowered his head, and it took Bilbo a moment to realize it was meant to be a bow.

Quite against his will, Bilbo chuckled. His hand flew up to cover his mouth with a mumbled, “So sorry,” but the frog, to his surprise, just laughed with him. He had a very cheeky grin for an amphibian.

“Been working on the bow,” Bofur, son of Kifur, said. “It’s coming along. Fell ass over teakettle the first few times.”

Bilbo felt himself smile again, and his shoulders relaxed so they weren’t nearly touching his ears anymore. “If you’re cursed,” he said thoughtfully, reviewing long-memorized and well-loved stories quickly, “then . . . are you a prince? Dwarves have princes, don’t they?”

Bofur laughed so hard at this that his round little body rolled over, nose over flippers until he was in sprawled across the wizard’s stomach. “A prince! _Me_!” he chortled, and he had the sort of laugh that made Bilbo want to laugh as well, infectious despite his current . . . bodily situation. His legs flopped out disturbingly (he looked a little too much like an exotic dinner). “Nay, lad, I’m a miner.”

Bilbo blinked. “A miner?” He looked between Gandalf, who managed to look both exasperated and amused as he gently cupped the frog’s body in his hands and returned him to the perch on the wizard’s knee, and the frog, who patted a polite thank you on Gandalf’s wrist for the assist. “Why would someone curse a miner?”

“Ah,” Bofur said, and lifted a sheepish foot to rub at his bare head. “Well, see, we were talking to some goblins and their king – disgusting fellow, by the way – was demanding answers and I might have…rather volunteered to answer them. To keep attention off my _actual_ king, you know. And he didn’t like my answers – possibly because they didn’t make a great deal of sense, but how was I to know he would understand sense when he writes such horrid lyrics? - so . . . here we are.” 

“By which my young friend here learned that it is better to let princes speak for themselves,” Gandalf intoned. Bofur rolled his eyes and tipped his head in Bilbo’s direction, a clear _what I put up with_ gesture.

Bilbo would never have suspected that a frog could be so expressive, even if he was usually a dwarf (in fact, he didn’t know dwarves could be this expressive, since they had a reputation for being very serious all the time). 

“So,” Bilbo said, thinking back to the bit of conversation he’d heard as he woke up from his (utterly understandable, thank you) swoon, “why, ah. Why all this about kissing?”

Bofur suddenly found the sky very fascinating, and Bilbo suspected that, if a frog could blush, this frog would do so. It was Gandalf, therefore, who answered his question:

“Bofur must be kissed, you see, by the prince of another people, in order to return to himself.”

Bilbo frowned. “I’m not a prince,” he said. “I’m only a gentlehobbit.”

“You, my dear boy, are the grandson of the Thane which is, for all intents and purposes, as close to a king as the Hobbits will ever have. I am of the opinion that it will be enough to break the curse. In fact,” he lay a massive hand on the Hobbit’s small shoulder, “I believe you are the only person in all of Arda for this job, Bilbo Baggins.” 

Bilbo pondered this a moment. Truly, any decent Hobbit would be insulted at the thought of needing a king; they always seemed rather bossy and overpowering in the stories, much more suited to the lives of Men and Dwarves than to the simple lives of Hobbits. “A kiss from a dwarf prince won’t do it?”

Bofur snorted indelicately. “We’ve two princes, and they both had a grand time giving it a go, shoving each other and dropping me in the process. It didn’t work. No, apparently it has to be a prince of another people.” He managed to pull a face, long tongue poking out in disgust. “And I’ll not hop about kissing elves, thank you.”

That was a rather a biased view, but Elves and Dwarves never liked each other in the old stories, so Bilbo wasn’t terribly surprised. Bofur seemed friendly enough, for a dwarf-frog, and had been refreshingly straightforward; Bilbo supposed he could give it a try.

“I suppose I could give it a try,” he said, and Bofur gave a little yip of approval at this.

“I’m so pleased to hear that,” Gandalf said, and he did look it. “But there is . . . a tad more to breaking the curse than that. It will take a bit of . . . time first.”

Both Hobbit and frog turned faintly irritated looks in the wizard’s direction and said together, “Oh, _is_ there?”

“Yes,” Gandalf agreed with equanimity, as if was being perfectly reasonable and not purposefully manipulative. The look the frog exchanged with Bilbo made Bilbo suspect that Bofur wasn’t fooled any more than Bilbo was. “A kiss from a stranger won’t work. It has to come from a friend.”

“You never said-“ Bofur croaked, “you had Fíli and Kíli wrestling to kiss me!”

“The princes are quite fond of you, Bofur.”

Bofur glared up at him, parting his mouth in an expression that probably would have been fierce in a dwarf . . . with teeth to bare. 

Gandalf continued undisturbed. “And so Bofur will need a place to stay for a short while, and I for one night. Luckily, you have a very large smial for one Hobbit, complete with a wizard-sized guest room.” He glanced down at Bofur. “You may drop Bofur in the tub.”

Bofur was not amused. Neither was Bilbo, but firm rules of Hobbit etiquette forbade him from turning his mother’s old friend away, tempting as it might be (more tempting, in fact, than turning away an extremely interesting frog). 

And so, Bilbo gained a house guest.


	2. Friendly Guests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo's unconventional guest settles in, and Bag End is filled with voices for the first time in far too long.

Gandalf carried Bofur back to Bag End, and the party of Hobbit, Gandalf, and cheerful (though wisely silent) frog certainly earned more than a few odd looks. Since Hobbits are a friendly race, many of these glances were accompanied by polite tips of hats and curious-but-friendly choruses of “Mr. Baggins.” Bilbo was distracted, and only waved and smiled back automatically, which only raised more questions among his nosy neighbors. Mr. Baggins, distracted? And look at that twitch about his nose: everyone knows that means something interesting was going through their local gentlehobbit's head. 

They were right on this count; Bilbo was working to solve major dilemma as they walked: where was he going to put Bofur? Bag End had several guest rooms for Hobbits and even the one for Men Gandalf had mentioned, but none at all for frogs.

“Any room will do,” Bofur said upon arrival, “though I do need to be close to the bathroom and perhaps a pail of water.” He shrugged apologetically (Bilbo wondered if all frogs could shrug and he had just never noticed, not being a connoisseur of frogs). “I’m afraid I do get a bit dried out.”

The guestroom closest to the bathroom was duly prepared, and Bilbo carefully filled a large serving bowl with water, which he set down a safe but comfortable distance from the small fireplace and surrounded with towels. 

Bofur hopped over the side with a small splash. “Ah. That’d be a mess then?” he asked, peeking back over the side, one flipper curving over the edge of Bilbo’s grandmother’s favorite bowl.

Bilbo smiled. It had been some time since he’d had any guests over for the evening, much less several in a row. There’d been a time when the spare bedrooms of Bag End were constantly filled with an assortment of his mother’s friends; in the last decade he had grown far too used to silence. “Don’t worry about it, that’s what the towels are for.” He glanced across at the large bed, a four-poster draped in cloth, and frowned. “Oh dear. I’m not sure you’ll be able to get up there.”

“A pillow on the floor,” Bofur said as he wiggled around in the basin, flopping on his back with all for webbed feet in the air for a moment, “would be lovely.”

“Of course,” Bilbo said, and went to fetch one.

As he laid it down (giving it a good fluffing in the process), Bofur’s voice came to him, much softer and more subdued than before. “I know this is an inconvenience for you,” the frog-dwarf said quietly. “I didn’t know I would be intruding on your home.”

There was something extremely sad in his guest’s voice that touched Bilbo’s heart. “It’s not an intrusion,” he assured Bofur briskly. “I’m looking forward to the company for a time, in fact. This smial does get a bit large for one lone Hobbit.”

“Still, you can’t force yourself to be friends with someone.” There was a thoughtful and somehow cheeky pause. “If you could, I’d make sure I was the king’s best friend. He has the nicest rooms.”

“No,” Bilbo agreed with a chuckle, “but there’s no reason to assume we won’t get along well.” While Bilbo certainly liked him well enough – as well as one could like a frog who was once a dwarf whom you’d known for one day in fact – they certainly couldn’t be called friends yet. 

“It will come,” Gandalf had said confidently as he ducked into his room for the night. “I have confidence in both of you. You are well-suited to be great friends.”

Bofur hopped out of the basin and snuggled down into one of the towels before raising his large pop-eyes to Bilbo’s. “You’re very kind,” he said sincerely. “I haven’t-” his voice caught in an almost froggy little sound as he swallowed whatever he’d meant to say, “a home is a very precious thing to share.”

Bilbo, quite unused to praise at this point in his life, didn’t blush, but it was a near thing. “Sleep well,” he said, instead of anything more awkward.

“And you,” Bofur replied as his host slipped away through the bedroom door.

\----

Bilbo enjoyed cooking. He was a sad failure at baking, but savory dishes he enjoyed. He was known throughout Hobbiton for his ability to cook large amounts to fill even Hobbit bellies at a fair or gathering, but it had been some time since he cooked for a small breakfast party. He woke early, cleaning up and getting dressed with perhaps more of a tiptoe to his step than usual, then headed to his well-stocked pantry in search of breakfast.

It was only when he was laying out the eggs, sausages, mushrooms, tomatoes, toast, marmalade, and two pots of tea that it suddenly occurred to him that one of his guests was a frog.

And frogs, to his knowledge, ate bugs.

He made a face.

He didn’t know how to cook bugs. How would he even catch any? He was always a pitiful failure at swatting the ones who came buzzing through his open windows in springtime. He was practically a bug-buffet.

“Oh dear,” he said aloud.

“What are we oh dear-ing this morning, my good Hobbit?” Gandalf asked cheerfully as he ducked through the doorway. “Really, I never thought the son of Belladonna Took would be such a one for fussing about and oh dear-ing. I remember when you were but a child and whacking at my knees with wooden swords.”

Bilbo shot him a politely nasty look. “I just realized I haven’t really prepared anything frog-appropriate,” he explained, twisting his fingers together in genuine distress. It didn’t do for a Hobbit to be anything but a gracious and well-prepared host. “That is to say, I’ve never cooked for a frog before.”

The reply he received came not from the wizard, but from the wizard’s pocket. “Well, that’s all right then!” Bofur said cheerfully as two webbed feet popped over the top edge, followed by large hazel eyes in a flat green face. “I’ve never eaten proper frog food. It’s hard to catch, if you really want to know.” His tongue flickered out a moment. “And then this happens a lot.” It flickered again, further this time, but tucking in back in was clearly a challenge – Bofur smacked himself smartly in the right eye.

Bilbo covered his mouth, but the chuckles poured through the ineffective cage of his fingers. Bofur, as near as the Hobbit could tell, look pleased.

“You will find that Bofur eats relatively little, due to his diminutive size,” Gandalf explained as he reached into his pocket and set the frog on the table, “but he has no trouble digesting normal fare.”

“Well,” Bilbo said, “you’re welcome to anything you like, of course.”

Bofur’s mouth fell open and his eyes widened to miniature saucers as he stared down the table.

Bilbo felt a frown tugging at his mouth. “Is something wrong? Is this not what dwarves like for breakfast?” He shifted nervously in his seat. “I’ve never had a dwarf visit before. Your people don’t get out much.”

“There is,” Bofur said, taking little breaths between each word as if getting them out was almost too much for him, “So. Much. Food!”

Bilbo looked over the table. “Well. I did cook enough for three Hobbits,” he admitted, “before I remembered you’re a frog.”

“Three?!” Bofur’s voice came out a squeak. He planted his foreflippers on the edge of the nearest plate, the better to peer at the feast before him. “Incredible!”

Bilbo was utterly confused by this display, but Gandalf clearly took it in stride, cutting off small portions of everything and piling them on the piece of good china in front of Bilbo’s amphibian guest.

“I must be on my way again after breakfast,” Gandalf said, and he did look regretful at this, especially after sampling some of Bilbo’s sausage and mushrooms. “A wizard is always busy, I’m afraid.”

“Will you be looking for a cure for Bofur, then?” Bilbo asked, spreading a tiny splat of marmalade on a fourth of toast and adding it to Bofur’s plate. The frog looked as if he had recently died and was now with his Maker, surrounded by an endless supply of earthly delights. When he ate, he threw himself, quite literally, at the pile of food in front of him. Bilbo wondered if this was a sign of bad manners or a side effect of being a size more for being served _on_ a plate than _from_ one. 

Gandalf sent him a rather huffy look. “Of course not. I’ve already done that. AS long as you two young fools _talk_ to each other,” he poked Bofur sternly so the frog would look up from the toast he was slurping experimentally “and don’t focus overmuch on being polite,” this he directed at Bilbo. “True friends do not sit about sipping tea and only saying the correct thing. You have fire in your belly and adventure in your spirit, Bilbo Baggins, son of Belladonna Took. It’s time you acted like it!”

Apparently seeing that he would never have a more dramatic moment to exit, Gandalf then gathered his robe and swished out the door, mumbling a final thank you for breakfast as it closed behind him.

He had not cleared his plate.

Bilbo glared at the leftovers, offended. No Hobbit would be so rude as to leave food that had been prepared especially for them unfinished! 

Wizards!

“This sausage,” Bofur said by way of diffusing the obvious tension in the room, “is delicious. Do you make it yourself?” And he rubbed his face on the rolled up napkin to clear up a bit of tomato juice.

\-----

Bilbo took his new guest on a tour of the house, keeping a close eye on his feet as Bofur hopped along. The frog was strangely graceful, keeping pace by Bilbo’s left foot with strong jumps (and soft splats on landing that made Bilbo smile without meaning to). He seemed fascinated by the smial, asking questions about the woodwork and the plumping and, of greatest interest to him, how it had been originally dug out.

“My father and some friends did most of it,” Bilbo said, “though he brought in a builder to reinforce as they dug back. This part was here and he added on before refinishing everything.” Bilbo’s smile softened as he remembered his mother’s laughter and his father’s soft smile. “It was a betrothal gift for my mother.”

Bofur slapped his back foot against one of the main support beams. “It’s well done. Digging in earth isn’t easy. You have to know what you’re doing.” He turned his open-mouthed froggy grin Bilbo’s way. “Dwarves live in mountains, and miners, well, we just go deeper in deeper along with the mines. I didn’t see sunlight until I was over fifty.” There was a twitch in the odd markings over his upper lip that made Bilbo suspect he was being teased.

“Over fifty? How old are you now?”

“Young yet.” Bofur hopped sideways then forward. “Only one-and-twenty.”

“Twenty-one?” Bilbo’s eyes widened. “You’re barely more than a child!”

“Of course not twenty-one! I’d still be at home with my mother! One _hundred_ and twenty, of course.” The frog chuckled to himself, a pleasantly wet noise. “You’re what . . . bit of a baby face, hard to tell without a proper beard. Ninety?”

“Ninety?!” 

It turned out there were more differences between Hobbits and Dwarves than either suspected – even without one of them being a frog.

\-----

“I’m always afraid I’m about to step on you,” Bilbo said that evening, after an exploration of the gardens (“Still no urge to try a few dragonflies?” Bilbo asked with a hint of a sly grin, and he earned a low croak for his cheek).

“That’s why I ended up in Gandalf’s pocket,” was the dry response, "but yours are a good bit smaller."

But it turned out he did quite well on a Hobbit-sized shoulder.

\----

As one day blended into the next, Hobbit and Frog found that they enjoyed sitting and having quiet conversations.

“Quiet’s a bit of a rare commodity back home,” Bofur explained his second afternoon as he watched Bilbo fussing in the garden (well out of Hamfast Gamgee’s sight, as his young gardener despaired of the master in his roses). “There’s always dwarves about in the miners’ quarters.”

“Where you live depends on what you do for a living?”

“More or less,” Bofur said, taking a moment to nibble curiously at a rose (he was fascinated by the amount of plantlife Hobbits appeared to eat, and Bilbo had told him roses could be on the menu). “Dwarves live inside mountains, so there’s limited space. Miners, of course, live deep in the mountains, close to the mines. The royal family – King Thorin, his sister Princess Dis, and her sons Fíli and Kíli-”

“The ones who dropped you?”

Bofur made a wet sort of snorting sound and spit out the rose petal, which wafted back on the wind to land on his head. Given his size, it gave the appearance of a jaunty pink hat. “Aye, the ones who dropped me after kissing me and declaring me slimy, which is a vicious lie. I’m not slimy at all.” He looked expectantly at Bilbo for confirmation.

Bilbo chuckled, and maybe the sound was a bit rusty but it felt good. “Not slimy at all,” he confirmed, and Bofur grinned back at him. “Perfectly dry.”

Bilbo, unable to resist the urge, placed a rose petal on the green head. Bofur’s eyes rolled oddly in an attempt to see it.

“You look better with a hat.”

\----- 

 

Bofur had a little brother named Bombur. “He’s married, with five children so far, which is very rare among dwarves, we’re lucky to have two.”

“I’ve heard tell that dwarves pop out of the stone,” Bilbo said with a smile, sliding a nail through the seam of the peapod in his hand with practiced expertise. 

“You’re probably heard tell of a lot of things,” came the amused response. Bilbo passed over one of the peas and Bofur eyed it suspiciously. Dwarves, it seemed, were not fond of green food in general. “That’s because it’s against custom to tell other races much about our people, and illegal to teach them our language. But the truth is, we make babies just like everyone else.” His voice turned wistful. “Just . . . not as often.

Bilbo remembered letters from his mother’s elf-friends, who also didn’t have children often; much less often than dwarves, probably. Perhaps the races had more common ground than they knew. The melancholy didn’t sit well on his amphibian guest, however, so he steered the conversation back to Bofur’s brother. “What does he look like?”

“Bombur? Obnoxiously handsome, red hair, full beard – beards being very important to dwarves – still not good enough for his wife, of course. She’s one of the greatest beauties in Erid Luin.” He nudged the pea away. “Looks like a bug. Thought you didn’t cook bugs.”

“No it doesn’t.” Bilbo rolled his eyes. “What about you? What do you look like?”

Bofur heaved a sigh that ended on a sad little ribbit. “Nothing like Bombur, I’m afraid. He got all the looks in the family.” He slapped one flipper over his heart and turned soulful hazel eyes on Bilbo until Bilbo laughed.

“Well, as far as I’m concerned, you’re quite fine looking.” He grinned a little, “for a frog. But perhaps we should go down to the pond and ask for more opinions?”

Bofur was so tickled by the thought of asking neighbor frogs for their opinions on his beauty that he curled up into a little green ball of laughter.

\----

On the morning of his fifth day in Bag End, Bofur revealed that he had a deep interest in telling stories, especially dwarven ballads. At Bilbo's clear interest, the frog puffed up a bit and offered to sing him a verse or two.

“Will you get in trouble for telling them to me?” Bilbo asked over tea and scones. Bofur’s tea was in a saucer, and it was easiest if Bilbo crumbled the scone for him. Watching Bofur eat was a bit disturbing at first, but he was used to the constant flicking of long tongue by now.

Bofur shrugged and let out a little ribbit, which Bilbo found fairly adorable. It happened when the frog was considering something at length. “Our language is closely guarded,” he said, “but as far as I know, it’s fine to tell stories, as long as they’re translated.” Then he did his froggy version of a grin, mouth hanging open and damp eyes sparkling. “Besides, I’m not sure any dwarf laws apply to friendly neighborhood frogs.”

Bilbo was quiet for several minutes, nibbling on his scones and thinking back. His gaze wandered to the library doorway, and the books within. Bofur, who, despite being a bit of a chatterbox by nature could also appreciate a companionable silence, let him have his time to ponder. 

“I’ll be right back,” Bilbo said, and Bofur made an agreeable noise as he coordinated a sip of tea. 

Bilbo ducked into the library and crossed to a bookshelf, meticulously dust-free. Leather-bound sat in a neat row: a group of sturdy brown volumes with an H on each spine; finer blue volumes with an E, sleek black volumes with an M – and one, tucked alone at the end, in thick red leather, stamped with the letter D.

Bilbo reached up, fingers hovering momentarily over the red book before he made up his mind and pulled it down.

When Bilbo rejoined his guest in the kitchen, he had ink, quill, and book, ready to begin.


End file.
